Ordinary Decent Criminals. Lionel Shriver

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       chapter two

       Roisin Has Enthusiasms

      Why couldn’t he nip in the back? Would he blink like a red light?”

      “Blamed if I know, Roisin, you’ve never said who you’re talking about.”

      “Lord, I can’t, Con. It’s not I don’t trust you. But matters being as they are—”

      “Spare me how matters are.”

      A little snippy, Roisin thought. “I’m only saying, so he was recognized, where’s the harm? He might shake my hand and say how very much he enjoyed it and smile and only the two of us the wiser.”

      “Why risk it?”

      “I want him to hear me read!”

      “Then curl up in the coverlet and recite with your man on the next pillow. That way no one’s the wiser.”

      Roisin bit her lip over the receiver. “Connie, you understand far better than you’re letting on.”

      “So do you. You want your toy boy to see you all tarted up in that blue dress, in front of a whole crowd of eejits queuing for signed copies of The Dumb and Frumpy Cows—”

      “That’s The Brave and Friendly Sheep! And it’s inhuman of me, when I see his own bake big as life on the telly every night?”

      “… On the telly, now?”

      “Forget I said that.”

      “A fine way to get me to remember.”

      “Seems to me, just,” Roisin went on nervously, “he might slip into one reading, who would point a finger.”

      “Such a TV star, why not? The English Lecture Theatre’s hardly the King’s Hall … What show might he be on, now?”

      The biggest show in town. Roisin smiled. The only show. “I’ve name enough by now, he’d only display decent public relations, attending a do for a major Six County poet.”

      “A Republican poet.”

      “I’m not a Republican poet.”

      “Wise up! With your father and those brothers in the Maze, write a donkey’s years about birdies and butterflies, or for that matter, join the UVF, burn your own house as a bonfire on the Twelfth, and go up with it, sure you’ll still get your name engraved on the County Antrim Memorial, with a full IRA cortege strung out to Lenadoon.”

      “For years in my work I’ve tried to—”

      “Doesn’t matter a jot, Rose,” Constance interrupted with the impatience that was beginning to characterize this entire call. “You are what they say.”

      “What has that got to do with Thursday?”

      “He’s a Prod, sure that’s no secret.”

      “I never said that.”

      “Och, no! You’re bumping the daylights out of Bill Cosby.”

      “Stop stirring me up! I said he was known, that’s all—”

      “And enough times.”

      To the injured silence on the other end, Constance continued. “I’m sorry, Roisin, but I can’t hold with this carry-on month after month about your famous man this, your famous man that—it’s a bit much, love. You’ve put the man terrible high up and there’s your problem. He can’t be as fancy as you figure, and if you could stare that down, maybe you wouldn’t let him wipe his shoes on your face. There’ve been times if I’d not seen the marks I’d swear you were making him up.”

      “He’s not a cruel man, and it was only those two times. And I’ll not have you run him down or make out he’s some wee Prod—”

      “If you’d stop exaggerating to me, you might stop exaggerating to yourself! So he’s some councilor or other—”

       “Angus MacBride is no councilor.”

      “You don’t say,” said Constance gravely.

      “I haven’t said.” Roisin spoke with reserve, her dignity restored. “Now do you see why?”

      “One of the bigger plums in the pie,” Constance conceded. “And you’re both better off he stays clear of the Thursday reading and every other.”

      “I’d not mind if it were only politics,” said Roisin, already growing sullen, though with herself; her stomach felt glutinous, as if she’d eaten too much potato bread. “Truth is, he’s not mad for poetry, even mine. Claims he doesn’t understand it.”

      “Fair enough,” said Constance. “You don’t understand politics.”

      Roisin was too sickened now to rise to the charge. “I’ve to sort out my selection for tomorrow, so I’ll ring off. But, Connie—”

      “Don’t worry, I’ll keep quiet. All the same—” Constance paused. “You shouldn’t have told me his name, love.” The receiver clicked in Roisin’s ear like a full stop at the end of any other simple, true declarative: The sky is blue.

      It was, and it shouldn’t have been; it should be bucketing. Roisin fidgeted from the phone and, to keep from ruining her well-kept nails, frantically hoovered the carpet. Well, obviously the only way to prove once and for all to Constance Trower just how big a secret she was keeping was to give it away.

      The hoover was full of cat hair, and filled the room with pet smell; Angus hated the cat and despised the smell. She kicked off the machine.

       Loose Talk Costs Lives.

      She’d pinned the poster at the entrance to the bedroom not long after she’d first started up with MacBride.

       In taxis

       On the phone

       In clubs and bars

       At football matches

       At home with friends

       Anywhere!

      WHATEVER YOU SAY—

      SAY СКАЧАТЬ